You are a prayer in the flesh…

With my impending trip back home fast approaching, I find myself reliving old memories and thinking back to the first time my mom forgot who I was. She asked me how we knew each other and when I sat her down and told her I was her daughter she said, “No..I don’t have a daughter. I always wanted one though…” That was true in part. She was wrong about not having a daughter, but it is true that she had always wanted a little girl. She had prayed for me. She had willed me into existence.

I am here because of her.

I am her prayer in the flesh.

It makes it hard to ever doubt why I’m here. The mere idea of me was loved so much that I was brought to fruition.

And therefore my place, in this place, is cemented. 

But where am I cemented now? My roots grew at 1829 Altamira Place in San Diego. That is where I am rooted. This is my home. The Bos Family Home. My parents owned this house for 40 years. To say that they loved it is an understatement. Sure it has its fair share of ghosts and sad memories, but it also has light and laughter too. It was in this place where I saw my dad last. I remember him most in our house. His smile. His laugh. The last words he ever said to me. It was in this place where my brother taught me how to dance. It was in this place where we turned our house into “Santa’s Village” every year where fuses were blown with the overuse of Christmas lights and decorations. It was in this place where we played football, hide and go seek, and rode our bikes with our neighbors. This was a place for going away parties, welcome home parties, birthday parties, graduation parties, and any and all types of family and friend gatherings. I left home when I was 18, but everytime I came back, I would always go home to the Bos House where my mom was waiting for me. She always waited for me. No matter how late my flight got in, she would always wait up, making sure I made it home safely. And we would talk for hours, long into the night on that first night back. Just unloading all that we had experienced while I was away and bringing us together again. My roots are planted there. But now…I feel displaced and isolated.

A tree with severed roots. 

In March, I had the impossible task of moving my mom in a memory care facility. The decision was made quickly. It was becoming more and more obvious that she was deteriorating at an aggressively fast rate and increasingly difficult for the caregivers to staff her given her behavior. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and barreled through it. It is all a haze now. The severing was quick. I moved her, I packed all of my parent’s belongings and family heirlooms, put them into storage, and now my house…the place where I grew up is now on the market to be sold. Don’t misunderstand – this is the right decision. It ensures that my mom will be taken care of for the rest of her life. And that’s what most important; more important than a piece of property. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not shattered by this reality and this experience. Because I am.

Shattered and severed.

I think what bothers me most is that she didn’t get to make the decision herself. Alzheimer’s has not only taken away my mother’s memories, sanity, and dignity, but also her ability to make decisions for herself.

Look what this disease has done. 

So tomorrow night I will again make my way home, but this time will be different. I don’t get to go my home. I no longer get to go where my roots grew. My mom won’t be waiting for me. She doesn’t remember that I’m coming. And I just keep thinking….god, the weight of this grief…the amount of pain I feel about all of this…is overwhelming. I’m not prepared for this. I’m not ready and I don’t want any part of this. But we’re never ready, are we?

Ready is a luxury.

What this experience has taught me is that grief is a force of energy that cannot be controlled or predicted. It comes and goes on its own schedule. Grief does not obey your plans, or your wishes. Grief will do whatever it wants to you, whenever it wants to. And in that regard, grief has a lot in common with love…

If that is the case, then the only real way to handle grief is handle it in the same way that I handle love. Which is to not handle it at all. To let it be here in the space with me. Allowing it to exist and be willing to experience it.

Grief says to me: “You will never love anyone the way you love your mom” And I reply: “I am willing for that to be true.” Grief says: “The person you know is gone and she’s never coming back.” I reply: “I am willing for that to be true.” Grief says: “You have lost another parent.” I say: “I am willing.” Grief says, “You aren’t just losing her, you’re losing your family too.” And then I grit my teeth, shaking — and through my sheets of tears — I say, “I AM WILLING.” Because this is the job of the living — to be willing to experience EVERYTHING that is bigger than you.

My mom willed me here. She brought me into this world. So I won’t do her the disservice of letting my grief stop me from living. I don’t know where the mom I knew is. I don’t know where the Alzheimer’s has put her. It’s not mine to know. I only know that I love her as fiercely and proudly as I always have. And that I am willing.

So again I will close my eyes, take a deep breath, and barrel though this.

Willingly.

*Special thanks for Liz Gilbert for always helping me to better articulate my feelings and thoughts*